The Universalist. [volume] (Chicago [Ill.]) 1884-1897, 1887-09-24
WHEN THE DAY Is GONE.

| WIEN TIE LA 10 oONE-
How quiet the house is at midnight.
The people who talk and laugh and sing
in it every day are asleep, and the people
who fell asleep in it long ago come back
into it. Every house has these two classes
Of tenants. Do we love best those with
whom we can talk and laugh and sing,
or the dear silent ones who come so noise
lessly to our side and whisper to us in
faint, sweet, far away whispers that have
no sound, so that we only hear their very
stiffness.
am not tired, but my pen is weary. 1t
falls from my fingers and I raise my head.
I start to leave the table and my eyes fall
upon little book lying on the floor. 1t
is little First Reader" He left it there
this afternoon. I remember just how I
was impatient beca1se he could not read
the simple little lesson, such an easy les
son, and told him it was waste of my
time to teach him and pushed him away
from me. / remember now. / see the
flush come into the little tired face, the
brave, cheerful look in his eyes, his moth
ers brave, patient cheeriness, struggling
with his disappointment and pain. see
him lie down on the floor and the little
face bend over the troublesome lesson,
such simple, easy Lesson, any baby
might read it. Then after little strug-
gle alone, it has to be given up, and the
baffled little soldier, with one more ap-
pealing look toward me for reinforce
ments, signs and goes away from the les
son he cannot read to the play that COM
forts him. And there lies the little book
just as he left it. All, me, could kneel
down and kiss it now, as though it were
alive and loving.
Why, what was my time worth TO me
to-day2 What was there in the book I
wanted to read, one half so precious 10
me as one cooling word from the prsttling
lips that quivered when turned away.
hate the book read. will never look
at it again. Were it the last book in the
world, think would burn ii. All it's
gracious words are lies. say to you,
though all men praise the book, and,
though an hour ago thought it excel
lent, I say to you there is poison in it's
hateful pages. Why, what can learn
from books that baby lips cannot teach
me? Do you know want to go to the
door of his room and listen; the house is
so still; may be he is not breathing. Why,
il between my book and my boy choose
my book, why should not God leave me
with my books? My hateful books.
But was not harsh was only a lit
tie impatient. Because, you see, his les
son was so easy, so simple. All, me, there
were two of us trying to read this after
noon. There we're two easy, simple les
sons. Mine was such very simple, easy,
pleasant, loving one to learn. just a
line, just little throb of patience, of
gentleness, of love, that would have made
my own heart glow and laugh and sing
The letters were so large and plain, the
words so easy and the sentences SO short
And I? Oh, pity me, missed every word.
I did not read one line Alright. See, here
is my copy now; all blurred and blistered
with tears and heartache, all marred and
misspelled and blotted. 1 am ashamed
to show it to the Master And yet I
know he will be patient with me; know
how loving and gentle he will be. Why.
how patiently and loving all these years
he has been teaching me this simple les
son I failed upon to-day. But when my
little pupil stumbled on single word
is my time, then, so much more precious
than the Masters that can not teach the
little lesson more than once
All, friend. we do waste time when we
plat scourges for ourselves. These hur-
rying days, these busy, anxious, shrewd,
ambitious times of ours are wasted when
they take our hearts away from patient
gentleness, and give us fame for love and
gold for kisses. Some day, then, when
our hungry souls will seek for bread, our
selfish god will give US stone. Life is
not deep, profound, perplexing prob
lem. 1t is simple, easy lesson, such as
any child may read. You cannot find its
solution in the ponderous tones of the
old fathers, the philosophers, the inyesti-
gators, the theorists. 1t is not on your
book-shelves. But in the wsrmest corner
of the most uplsttered heart it glows in
letters that the blindest may read; a
sweet, plain, simple, easy, loving lesson.
And when you have learned it, brother Of
mine, the world will be better and hap
pier.-R. j. Burdette.